


You Know (What I Want)

by akitsuko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Loud Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rimming, Shameless Smut, Size Kink, Top John, Vocal Sherlock Holmes, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-11-27 18:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18197570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akitsuko/pseuds/akitsuko
Summary: Sherlock can't get enough of John’s husky sex-voice, thick fingers, and huge cock.





	You Know (What I Want)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forgotten_mystery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgotten_mystery/gifts).



> Forgotten_mystery - I hope this is relevant enough to your interests! I tried to include as many things you've asked for as possible :) Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Not proof-read.

Before John had appeared and become such an integral part of his life, Sherlock thought he had himself quite thoroughly figured out. Turns out that John Watson has a way of turning both one’s world view and one’s sense of self-identity on their heads. 

 

Before John, Sherlock had never known that he could  _ need _ like this. 

 

John’s body is broad and hard, trapping Sherlock against the door of his bedroom with scarcely space to take a breath. John’s strong fingers are wrapped around his wrists, pressing them back too so he can't move or touch. The grooves in the wood dig painfully into his skin. All he can do is kiss back as John’s tongue overwhelms him and takes him apart. 

 

It’s really something, to be the absolute focus of John’s attention. 

 

And no one has ever really wanted Sherlock before, not really, not like this. So he never knew it could feel this dizzyingly addictive. 

 

He whines into John’s mouth, and John bites his lower lip, sucks it towards him. Sherlock is helpless but to follow. But he’s stuck between the door and John, John’s hips and chest and shoulders keeping him pinned. Sherlock may have a few inches on him in height, but the advantages end there, and he has to take it as John grinds against him. 

 

John surrounds him and demands acquiescence, submission. Sherlock gives. 

 

How could he have ever known that he would want to give? That he could be made to feel so desperate to please? 

 

John has a thigh wedged between his own, providing a constant source of friction for his cock, which is already straining insistently against the confines of his trousers. He can feel how hard John is too, how much he also wants this, can't get enough of it. Sherlock digs his fingernails into his own palms, and if his mouth weren't otherwise occupied, he’s sure he would be able to feel himself salivating. He tries to suck John's tongue into his mouth instead, and whimpers as John growls, roughening the kiss and driving the back of Sherlock’s head harder against the door. 

 

It's fascinating and it's blissful, slipping under the spell of John Watson, being able to revel safely in the feeling of being a little bit controlled. 

 

It’s so easy to let go as John ruts wantonly against him, every drag of his body emphasising the power of that subtly muscular physique, deceptively broad where it presses against Sherlock’s relatively lithe frame. Sherlock likens the experience to how it might feel to be swallowed whole, effortlessly consumed by a greater power. 

 

He wants to reciprocate, press back, but there's just no room for movement. The best he can do is squirm and gasp his wordless desire against John’s lips. He knows what's coming, and he can hardly wait, his patience limited at the best of times and virtually non-existent when he anticipates a thorough ravishment at John’s skilled hands. 

 

The thought of it, and the memories of times before… John’s thick fingers stretching him, opening and exposing him, getting him into the right headspace to accept John’s almost intimidatingly large cock… He groans loudly, his eyes sliding shut to help him focus in the face of this onslaught of sensory input. 

 

Because there are no two ways about it; John’s cock is enormous. Far bigger than it has any right to be, given John’s build and height. Sherlock had spent more time than was probably healthy imagining it before he got his first real glimpse, trying to be subtle as he eyed John’s crotch when he wore slightly tighter jeans, and the sheer curiosity had almost eaten him alive. He’d suspected that John would be well-endowed, but he’d been woefully unprepared for the reality when he’d finally managed to get John in his bed for the first time. He’d stared enough to have John squirming, found himself swallowing back excess saliva as he came to the realisation that there was nothing he wanted more than to get that cock inside him somehow. 

 

He would love John irrespective of his size, but it would be pointless to deny that it’s been rather an unexpected bonus. 

 

“Get on the bed for me, Sherlock.” John’s voice is low and demanding, the words spoken against the shell of his ear. Sherlock obeys. What else can he do? It does strange and terrifying things to his body when John’s voice deepens like that. 

 

He’s on his hands and knees, and he feels the dip in the mattress as John climbs up behind him. His trousers and pulled down without ceremony to pool at his knees, out of the way, and he shudders at the feeling of John’s warm breath ghosting over his newly exposed skin, at the knowledge that John’s eyes are almost certainly trained on his most intimate area. He clenches, without really meaning to, and the responding grunt from behind him betrays John’s lust.

 

“Need to get you ready for me. Can you be patient?” 

 

Sherlock bites his lip, nods his head vigorously, even as he knows that John is going to drive him crazy before that mouth-watering cock gets anywhere near him. But he doesn't have a choice, really. If he wants it, he has to endure all the preparation first, as much as John decides that he needs. He’s usually begging without even a scrap of shame by the end of it. 

 

He suspects that John enjoys that, and prolongs this part on purpose, just to hear all those unfiltered desires spilling from Sherlock's mouth. 

 

As long as he gets what he wants in the end, it’s an indignity that Sherlock is more than happy to endure. 

 

Then John's tongue is on him, warm and wet and licking a slow stripe all the way from his perineum to his coccyx, and he garbles something unintelligible as his hands fist in the sheets. 

 

John is ridiculously good with his mouth. It ought to be a crime. He places soft, sucking kisses all over the sensitive flesh, using his thumbs to expose Sherlock even further as he flutters his tongue in tiny motions.

 

Sherlock lets his head hang between his shoulders as he tries to keep a grip on his breathing, but it's almost impossible. His whole body already feels tense, strung taut, ready to snap as soon as John pushes the right buttons. He feels a bead of sweat trickle slowly down the length of his spine, a long and husky moan emerging from his throat as he rocks his hips back towards John’s tongue. Though his eyes are lidded and his vision is unfocused, the sight of his own cock, thus far untouched and yet already hard enough to support its own weight in the air, just makes him crave John more. 

 

“John,” he gasps in a voice he hardly recognises while John toys with him, kneading his arse with those strong fingers and sealing his lips softly over his entrance. “Oh god, John, please, I need you-”

 

He’s cut off as John spears his tongue firmly past the tight ring of muscle, driving it back and forth without ever fully withdrawing, and Sherlock is no longer capable of producing words. He’s barely aware of the string of incoherent whimpers coming out of him. His entire world has narrowed to where John Watson is fucking him with his tongue, relentlessly slick and warm and absolutely incredible. 

 

Sometimes, Sherlock feels like he could come from this alone. But he always holds on, wanting to be able to fully appreciate it when John finally gets something more substantial inside him. More filling. When he does finally come, he wants it to be because John's cock is stretching him so fully that screams are torn from his throat. 

 

John's tongue pulls back, not completely, but enough to play tantalisingly around the puckered, quivering skin of his entrance, and John is moaning like this is the most pleasurable experience in the world for him. Sherlock can't imagine how that can be true, but that doesn't stop his back arching, his arse tilting back. The temptation to just allow his upper body to collapse down onto the mattress is huge, his arms struggling to support his trembling weight. 

 

He gets the chance to catch his breath as John backs off a few inches, warm air from John's mouth ghosting over his wet skin and causing him to grit his teeth. 

 

“You’re gorgeous,” John murmurs in that deliciously deep register that only seems to emerge at times like this. He’s still close, Sherlock can feel him, looking his fill and teasing with his fingertips. “Gonna take you apart. You want that?”

 

Despite himself and the vulnerability of his position, Sherlock manages a huffed snort. “Are you all talk and no action?”

 

One of John’s fingers pushes into him unceremoniously, all the way to the knuckle, and somewhere in the back of Sherlock’s brain he wonders how he’d been distracted enough not to notice the introduction of lube. As it is, it’s all he can do to hiss an inhale and try not to fall on his face. The finger moves inside him, more exploratory than trying to achieve anything. It’s just one, but John’s fingers are thick enough that one is enough to have his body resisting. 

 

“You’ve got too much sass for a man who's so obviously enjoying himself.” John’s free hand reached around and gives his cock a single squeeze, something that Sherlock isn't entirely prepared for, and his body jerks into the grip automatically. Suddenly, John’s voice is much closer, low and damn sexy and right next to his ear. “You’ll get what you want, but only when I'm ready to give it to you. Is that clear?”

 

That voice makes him crazy. Sherlock can't answer, though he knows he doesn't need to. 

 

John’s finger is almost lazy in its movements, slow pushes in and equally slow drags out. It circles inside him, testing the give of his muscles. There’s sweat on Sherlock’s nose and he can't seem to keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds at a time. 

 

He almost sobs with relief when he feels a second finger enter him alongside the first, a slight burning sensation coming with the stretch now, but he needs this. John alternates thrusting and scissoring motions, keeping it all at that infuriatingly unhurried pace as Sherlock becomes more and more fixated on the end goal. It’s not that John’s fingers don't feel sublime, because they do, but it'll never be able to compare to the blinding pleasure of his dick. 

 

“I could do this all day,” John's gravelly voice says. “You’re so tight. I want you open. How am I supposed to fuck you if you can't take me?”

 

“You know I can take you,” Sherlock’s words come out in a rush, and he doesn't need to be able to see to know John is grinning. 

 

“You were made for me.”

 

A third finger slips in with the next thrust, and any witty retort he might have been considering promptly dies in his throat, replaced instead with a groan torn straight from his lungs. He can't help but vocalise with every breath now, trying to force the digits deeper, angling himself in a vain attempt to get some contact against his prostate. 

 

John is avoiding that particular spot on purpose, getting just close enough to tease but not enough to stimulate. He does that sometimes, when he wants to drive Sherlock especially close to the brink of desperation. It always works. 

 

And it’s so good and still not enough. Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut so hard that it hurts. It feels like it takes a lifetime for John to be satisfied that he’s stretched enough, his muscles willing to accommodate, and by the end of it he’s an absolute mess, practically weeping with want. 

 

How did he ever get to the point where he could be so consumed with sexual need that everything else in the world seems immaterial? His pre-John self would sneer at the carnality of it. 

 

Then finally,  _ finally _ , he hears the unmistakable sound of John’s one-handed struggle to get his own jeans down, while those strong and confident fingers remain nestled inside him. He’s almost vibrating from anticipation, the burn where his sphincter pulses around the sturdy digits a distraction that makes it difficult to concentrate. 

 

“Tell me, Sherlock.” John’s voice is strained too. “Tell me how much you want it.”

 

Sherlock is having trouble even remembering what words are, let alone how to use them or string a sentence together. The best he can do is a single drawn-out syllable that sounds like the start of John’s name, and he has to hope that it will suffice. 

 

The fingers disappear, and are almost immediately replaced by the blunt head of John’s cock at his entrance. The knowledge that what he wants is so close almost kills him; he bucks his hips back in an unconscious effort to impale himself, but John’s hands are on him and restricting his movement. 

 

A few seconds (hours?) pass, the tip of John continuing to nudge but refusing to penetrate, and Sherlock can't help it as his whole body is wracked with a sob of frustration and need. He bites his lip, barely registers the tang of his blood. The promise of John pushing his body to its limit is the centre of his universe. His knuckles are white, and he would be begging if he could only remember how to do it. 

 

Then John presses forward, just enough to pass that first ring of resistance, and their twin groans sound filthy in the quiet room. 

 

His progress is slow and careful, always waiting for any tightness to ease before pushing in a little further. Because even with all that preparation, it’s still a tight fit, Sherlock's body protesting John’s size even as his mind is chanting a mantra of  _ yes please more yes deeper come on John I need you I need you I need you.  _

 

A soothing, though not entirely steady, hand strokes along Sherlock’s back, under the shirt that neither of them had prioritised removing. And it does help. John is simultaneously splitting him apart and keeping him together, letting him tiptoe the edge of  _ too much _ without falling. Another inch or so eases in, and Sherlock is powerless now to support himself, dropping to his elbows and burying his face in the pillow. The sudden change of angle has John grinding out more of those delectable, rumbly noises, his hand stuttering in its movements as he clearly fights the temptation to just ram himself in the rest of the way. 

 

Sherlock wants to say, do it John. I won't break, I love this, do it. 

 

But he is past words, and John wouldn't anyway. He would say something clinical and unsexy about tearing or fissures. 

 

It’s an age before Sherlock feels the familiar brush of John's balls against his arse, and he blows out a shuddering breath of relief as John pauses to wait for that last bit of stretch to flutter around him before he starts moving. They both stay still, concentrating on breathing. John’s hand rubs circles on Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock notices that his hair is sticky with sweat, a few curls plastered uncomfortably to his forehead. 

 

John is in him, completely, and it feels like any movement at all might rip him in two. He stifles a moan at the thought, the impossibility that John could fit so at odds with the reality that he does fit, that Sherlock’s brain short-circuits a little. He tries to consciously relax, wriggles a bit, needing John to understand that it’s ok, and that he might die if John doesn't start fucking his brains out in the very immediate future. 

 

Maybe he says it out loud without realising, but who cares? Because John finally moves, starting slow like he always does, steadying Sherlock’s hips as he sets a shallow rhythm. 

 

“God, Sherlock,” he grinds out between gritted teeth. “You feel so fucking perfect.”

 

He pulls out further on the next thrust, pushes back in with a touch more force than before. Sherlock’s shoulders shake as his mouth hangs open in a silent scream, the overwhelming joy of being so full of John overriding anything else. 

 

His pre-John self would consider him base. Would look down on him, for being so under the spell of bodily desire. 

 

How could his pre-John self have known how essential John would become? Or how transcendent it would feel to be connected to John like this? 

 

A harder, deeper thrust catches him off-guard, and his head snaps back as he howls. 

 

And that's enough for John to start letting go, to start fucking him properly, with more of the depth and the speed that Sherlock craves. Skin gets stickier as they come together over and over, and the slapping sound of balls against thighs is obscene and wonderful. John isn't trying to be quiet, because he knows how much Sherlock loves to hear him; it’s a messy and uncoordinated mixture of low grunts and moans and words like “Christ,” and “so fucking good,” and “fucking love you.” 

 

Sherlock’s back bows abruptly as John hits his prostate for the first time, and he feels like he might even cry. John knows, because John always knows, and he chuckles almost darkly as he pauses to adjust his position. Sherlock gulps loudly, hardly daring to move, because this is his favourite part-

 

He positively screams as John, after almost withdrawing completely, slams back into him with unerring accuracy, picking up a pace far more brutal and primal than before. The entire bed frame moves with them now, John pulling him back with every thrust forward, getting as deep as possible and drawing wails so loud from Sherlock that his throat soon starts to dry, his voice turning hoarse. 

 

He’s dizzy, seeing stars. The pressure of his orgasm starts to build as he fights to stay conscious through the bliss. 

 

“You gonna come just from my dick?” John’s equally hoarse sex-voice asks. “I know you will.”

 

Sherlock knows it too, beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

 

“Because you love this. You love me wrecking you like this.”

 

God help him, he does. 

 

“Let me see you come, Sherlock.”

 

He has to, the very next pound of that fat cock against his prostate like flicking a switch. He tenses and writhes uncontrollably, shouting and sobbing as his come paints streaks on the bed beneath him, clinging to the feeling of John inside him and fucking him as his body is wracked by waves of pleasure, enduring until he almost can't take it anymore. He vaguely hears John's dirty words of encouragement and praise, and then it’s as if his body gives up, so spent that he can no longer engage with reality. 

 

He’s floating, almost. He still feels it as John fucks his way to his own climax, but barely registers the way John's come starts to trickle down the backs of his legs. He’s only really half aware as John helps him into a more comfortable position lying down, pushing his hair away from his eyes, smiling at him with a sated fondness. It’s not until John disappears to the bathroom, then comes back to gently clean him up with a damp flannel, that Sherlock’s brain starts to reboot and come back online. He turns his head slowly, seeking John's gaze, to find John smirking at him. 

 

“Welcome back.”

 

How John is still capable of words is a mystery; Sherlock is nowhere near capable of putting a sentence together yet, never mind a sarcastic response like he wants to. He has to settle for rolling his eyes instead. 

 

Every single muscle in his body is screwing at him. His arse is sore and open. He is absolutely exhausted. 

 

He wouldn't trade it for anything. 

 

John settles down on the bed beside him, wrapping an arm across his chest and pressing a lingering kiss to his damp hair. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. His pre-John self would call it sentiment, but now he calls it perfection.

**Author's Note:**

> Starting to feel like I need to say this every time, which is a bit sad in itself: please don't throw complaints and negativity my way, because I'm sensitive and it upsets me. I'm just trying to enjoy myself here. I would turn off commenting if I could, but I can't, so if this wasn't to your taste, please just hit the back button and move on instead :)


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